A Team Drabbles
by Thatkliqkid
Summary: A collection of drabbles I've written focusing on The A Team.
1. Take back the city

_Take back the city – Snow Patrol _

The bad guys had them surrounded, the team were sheltering in an abandoned house, with the rest of the townsfolk who had called them in, determined to reclaim their city.

This was different, it wasn't some unknown village they'd travelled to in Mexico or Brazil, this was their home. This was LA.

And no one took The A Team's home, especially when it was the only one they could claim until they were pardoned.

Hannibal stood, cigar clenched between his teeth as they pored over the papers before them, the maps and plans of the city Face had scammed from the local building society covering the table. Murdock was playing with the blu-tack holding them in place until a glance from BA convinced him it was fine the way it was. He went to drop it, panicked as it remained stuck to his fingers, worried by BA's deepening glare he merely put his hand in his pocket, sticky as it was and heeded his attention in Hannibal's direction.

" We attack there, " Hannibal declared, jabbing his finger at the plan.


	2. All that remains

_All that remains – Fozzy_

They were never meant to end up here, that was never part of the plan. Hannibal stared up at the ceiling, at the shadows dancing past the iron bars of the prison cell. He'd failed the team, failed them all. He was never meant to do that either. He was meant to protect them, to lead and guide them.

He wasn't meant to have them end up a firing squad. He wasn't meant to have Murdock locked up in the VA whilst they remained incarcerated here.

He was meant to come up with a plan.

Everytime Face looked at him, he could see the desperate yearning in his eyes, the unwavering trust that soon Hannibal would come up with a plan to get them out of here, to escape the threat of death and to leave the ghosts of Hanoi behind them.

No plan was materialising.

BA was just as trusting although the look had changed in the last few days, his yearning had been replaced by something else, something resembling acceptance of their fate.

And Hannibal wasn't sure which troubled him more. At least Face seemed to be clinging to hope, as fickle as it was.

He really wished he had a cigar, maybe then he'd have a plan,and they could have their freedom.


	3. Only you

_Only You – Joshua Radin _

Murdock couldn't stop thinking about her, ever since he'd gotten back to the VA she'd been in his thoughts, he remembered how accepting she'd been and how sweet. She hadn't cared that he'd almost gotten her killed, that he'd brought those demented Hill Billies into her life. She'd helped him, because of Homer, because she liked him.

And he liked her.

But how could it ever work? It wasn't possible no matter how much he wished it was. Kelly had a life, out there running her vets, he was committed to the VA.

He closed his eyes, it'd be nice though.


	4. Affirmation

_Affirmation – Savage Garden _

The A Team had escaped again, delighted in their victory as the van's wheels screeched behind them. Face and Murdock were situated in the back discussing how close they'd come to capture, Hannibal waxing lyrical about how neat that had been, BA grumbling about the jazz and how Hannibal was going to get them killed.

Amy sat between Face and Murdock, drinking in their chatter, Murdock had decided the next time Decker chased them, they should write a song.

" A song?" asked Face

"Yeah like his theme tune," explained Murdock

"What d'ya wanna give 'im a theme tune for fool?" asked BA, not liking the direction Murdock was taking the conversation.

" So we know it's him," replied Murdock as if the answer was obvious.

" I think the sirens already do that," said Face sarcastically, " At least, they always alert me to the Mps"

" But sirens are so boring and cliché," complained Murdock, " It needs something sinister, something with flair, "

"Decker doesn't have flair," laughed Hannibal

"All the more reason to give him some," protested Murdock, he began to hum beneath his breath, composing the tune.


	5. Here I go again

_Here I go again – Casting Crowns _

Face wasn't one for heeding the religious teachings he'd received as a child. He paid lip service to the Catholic Church, felt he owed it as a debt to the Nuns and Priests who'd raised him as a child, checked the obligatory box on the form when he joined the army, when they asked what religion he belonged to.

His lifestyle didn't really follow the ideals of Jesus Christ, unless the Bible had undergone a massive re-write since the last time he'd read it in the orphanage, he doubted it had expanded to accept a string of one night stands and conman-ship as virtuous and pious behaviour.

So it surprised him that he ended up inside the church, staring at the stained glass windows, hands clasped tightly together in prayer, he bowed his head, the words falling from his lips hushed and breathless, a desperate plea for his friend. A desire to keep Murdock alive and well, a prayer that he'd survive the bullet wound he'd suffered.

He lifted his head, stared at the statues around the church and hoped God heeded his earnest prayer.


	6. Attention

He watched her watching Face, her longing clear, eyes tainted in yearning and jealousy as she watched him the dance floor, cradling some slender blonde. Murdock drained the rest of his soda, set the empty cup down before striding over with a purpose.

She didn't grant him attention straight away, was too focused on Face.

She was always too focused on Face.

Murdock cleared his throat, startled Tawnia from her staring.

"May I have this dance?" he asked, the words stilted as he adopted a formal British accent. Tawnia merely glanced at his outstretched hand, her gaze not really acknowledging his open palm. He could sense how badly she wanted to overlook his obstruction of her view of Face.

"C'mon, I'd ask BA but I think he'd step on me,"

She smiled as Murdock slipped back into his regular Southern drawl, finally claiming her attention. She placed her hand in his and allowed him to guide her onto the dance floor.

And as they moved amongst the circling lights above, the shadows casting patterns on their clothes as he held her close, one hand light against her hip, he wished not for the first time that he could hold her attention the way Face could.

End.


	7. Chocolate

**T****itle:** Chocolate  
**Summary:** Written 23/3/11. Drabble. Face's thoughts on the payment the Team end up recieving. It's not what he hoped.  
**Rating: **PG  
**Notes:** I wrote this in like 20 minutes whilst I was on the bus going to work. It's nothing spectacular but hey at least I wrote something for the first time since like January lol!  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own The A Team. If I did I'd so rob Murdock's jacket.

Face wasn't sure how it had happened. The oral contract always transferred to paper without incident. It was a seamless procedure, one that wasn't affected by Hannibal's jazz levels. As he looked around the van, penned in his seat by seemingly multiplying boxes of expensive chocolates he had to wonder how everything had gone south so swiftly, his head ached trying to calculate how the payment for their latest mission had been gone from 10% of profits produced to 10% of produce when the words had been committed to paper.

Murdock was positively giddy, Face wondered if the chocolaty scent had sent him on a sugar induced high. He dreaded to think what their journey home would disintegrate to once the pilot began actually consuming the sweets. Even BA was thrilled with the turn of events, the appeal of feeding his sweet tooth overpowering his concern for the potential mess chocolate could create in the van.

Murdock tried to pull Face from his thoughts, rattled a now open box beneath his nose demanding he choose at least one chocolate from the selection. He twisted his features in repulsion at the offering, still very much disappointed with the turn of events. He'd already spun a life of riches and finesse in his mind's eye with the money he thought they'd receive, now he found his mansion dashed in the wake of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory.

Hannibal turned in his seat from the front of the van, plucked a chocolate from the box Murdock still held.

"Cheer up Face," he said, "At least you'll always have a gift for valentines day"

Murdock rattled the box again, Face sighed, knew he would relent until he'd given in and took what was offered. He reached over and grabbed a chocolate, took a bite and reluctantly had to agree that Hannibal's standpoint meant the situation didn't look so bad.


	8. Fight or flight?

He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins as he watched the rest of the team ushered towards the mouth of the cave, guns pointed firmly in their direction.

It was a numbers game, with the odds firmly in the enemies favour, 12-4 wasn't a bet Murdock particularly wanted to take.

But it was decision time. Fight or flight.

He glanced to the left, and his heart rose at the welcome sight of the helicopter.

Why pick one when you could do both?

He began his swift descent down the cliff-side, heading towards salvation, ready to stage the rescue.

End.


	9. The secrets graves keep

Murdock had met his father once. At his sixth birthday party. Looking back on it years later he had to wonder who had contacted him, was certain it wouldn't have been his Grandfather who had given the man nothing but looks of cool disdain the entire thirteen minutes and fifty five seconds he had decided to stay.

It was awkward, that's what he remembered, even at such a young age, he could sense this stranger's desire to be anywhere but near him. He didn't know what to do with a child, had no concept of how to speak to him, had merely stood unsteadily before him, swaying in some drunken haze as he clumsily shoved a package in his hand wrapped in browning paper, tied messily with frayed and weathered string.

He had opened it, even though it had reeked of tobacco and cheap whiskey to find maybe a handful of toy soldiers, the paint chipped and broken, the green almost grey.

Murdock had watched his father leave, never to darken his door again, before he buried them beneath the soil and left them to rot.

It was that memory that plagued him as he scratched amongst the soil, trying to dig up the photos he'd taken from Bancroft and buried. The moonlight his only source of sight as he worked, fingernails black.

Nowhere near as black as his conscience though.

Face deserved to have at least one thing from his father. He could choose to do what he liked with it after, but he at least deserved the choice.

And so Murdock dug, trying to wrest it from the grave he'd created for himself.

End.


	10. Cold

**Set during the season 5 episode "Without Reservations" and written using the song "Into the nothing" by Breaking Benjamin as an inspiration. The dialogue "Murdock, I feel so cold." belongs to the episode writer Bill Nuss. References the Season 2 episode "Curtain Call" in passing.  
**

* * *

_" Murdock, I feel so cold."_

Kneeling on the floor, one hand wrapped consolingly around Face's shoulder, Murdock remembered that coldness, remembered the way the chill washed over your body, rendering every inch of you numb.

Every inch save for the burning ache. The fiery pain that broke through the numbness until you were sure you'd suffocate on agony.

But that coldness, it fought for control. It fought to consume you whole. It froze your soul, until you were sure you'd never be warm again.

And your teeth chattered, and your body shook and your blood drained at an alarming rate whilst your brain shrieked in panic that you were going to die.

And Murdock understood, he finally understood why BA hadn't wanted to hear those words in the mine. Why he'd cut him off.

Laboured and breathless words, dying words, weren't meant to be spoken.

They weren't meant to be heard.

Not in Vietnam, not in some abandoned mine, not in the kitchen of Villa Cuchina.

He refused to acknowledge them. Couldn't acknowledge them.

Not when Face was the one choking the whisper out over a cloud of pain.

So he bit down on his knuckle until he was sure he'd draw blood, until he his focus was consumed with his own pain, and not Face's.

Face dragged him back to reality, brought him back to the kitchen floor, hand cold and clammy against his own, seeking solace, trying to ward off his own fear.

And Murdock let him, because nothing hurt as much as guilt and he was overwhelmed in it.

He stared down at Face, tried to mask the concern, could feel the cracks beginning to show in his masquerade.

Could see his own terror reflected in Face's eyes.

God, how he wished BA and Hannibal were here.

End.


	11. Blood

Murdock resisted the strong urge to clamp his hand over the broken skin. He wanted to soothe the ache so badly but past experience had taught him well, smacking your palm over the fresh puncture wound just earned you another one.

And if the Doctors had their way, they'd pump you so full of holes you'd whistle Dixie.

He remembered, before Vietnam, when donating blood was a transaction. They withdrew his blood and deposited a few dollars for food in his hand.

Now there were no dollars, no cookies, no cups of tea.

Just a bruise and a band aid and a "send McGregor in next."

"Hey Doc, you got any of those band aids with the dinosaurs? Y'know those cool purple ones, 'cause Billy, he already got five of those green spiky dudes and we're looking to trade some long necks in the next game of cards, Frank Dermont's got us whipped at poker, boy he sure knows when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. Ain't gonna have no cookies left to trade, so if I could get some of those neato dino band aids, I'd have some leverage. So what d'you say? Can you help a brother out?"

"Murdock, you know gambling isn't permitted on the ward,"

He didn't even look up from the vial of blood he was labelling.

"I'll cut you into my winnings, next game's chocolate pudding," Murdock persisted.

" That's great Murdock. Just send McGregor in"

Murdock watched as the doctor smoothed the regular, flesh coloured band aid over his arm.

"Spoilsport," he muttered.

"McGregor please, Murdock."

Murdock saluted.

"See 'ya next week Doc,"

The doctor sighed as the door closed behind the captain, a moment's reprieve from endless chatter. Last week he'd wanted a cookie, the week before he'd tried to start a union against the bloodsuckers who weren't providing fair pay to the donating patients.

The door opened again.

"Murdock, I told you, send McGregor in," 

"I'm getting to it, gee you're impatient. Relax, the blood isn't gonna spoil. You sure you don't want a cut in my winnings, I'm on a hot streak," He held his hands out and wiggled his fingers, "These babies are golden, all I need is a dino band aid-"

"Out Murdock!"

The pilot slunk from the room, muttering about the audacity of people, being so bad tempered when he was trying to do them a favour.

The doctor really hoped he was on his lunch break when it was Murdock's turn to give blood next.

The End.


	12. Angels

**Sorry, this is pretty angsty. Not sure where it came from.**

* * *

When he was nine, Joseph Dutton had told him that when you die your life flashes before your eyes. Being the curious type, Murdock had wanted to try it. Not for any morbid reason, he wasn't looking to end his short life, but he'd found since coming to live with his grandparents, that the memory of his mother became more and more faded. Every day her scent seemed a little mustier, her laugh a little fainter and her form blurred around the edges until he was sure she'd soon be reduced to just a picture in a frame.

So that night, at bath-time, he dunked his head beneath the water, like the girls in his class tried when they went swimming in the creek, pretending to be mermaids. He kept his eyes open, not caring that it stung, awed by how his vision seemed green, how everything look warped. He held his breath and lay there, looking through a watery filter, sure that he could see her, if he just stayed there a little longer, if he just gave her image a chance to focus, it was getting brighter, he could see her hair, it was so soft, framing her face. Her face. Any minute now and it would clarify.

He gasped and choked, more from surprise than anything else, let out a wail of protest and squirmed in strong hands. His grandfather set him down on the floor, asking him what in God's name he thought he was doing.

He'd been trying to find an angel.

Staring down the barrel of the gun, Murdock realised everything Joseph Dutton had told him was a lie. There was no retrospective of his life. No sped up clip show showing birthday parties, Christmas days and first kisses. No carefree moments from days gone by flashed before his eyes. There wasn't even Vietnam. There was just the gun, the bullet, the pain. Fog around his eyes, buzzing in his ears, and a blur of colour with bursts of speckled light.

And then nothing.

Nothing but the angel.

The end.


	13. Grief

Murdock didn't cry when he received the letter.

He just discarded it on the table like the unwanted debris from the rest of his breakfast.

Stared into his water as if it could force the world to make sense again

Gave a half hearted greeting to the rest of the unit as they joined him in the Mess tent.

Didn't stop Hannibal from picking up the letter and reading through it, gave him a nod and a wave of permission.

"_Captain Murdock, we regret to inform you..."_

He hated letters that started like that.

He didn't get angry when he realised his grandmother's death coincided with his time in the camps.

Didn't feel cheated when he saw the letter was censored, thick black lines obscuring parts of the text.

Didn't want to tear the world apart for denying him the right to attend her funeral.

He just sat and stared at his water whilst Hannibal stared at him.

He didn't panic when he got behind the controls of the Huey for the first time since recovering from THE ORDEAL.

Didn't care that it was all capitals in his mind, labelled as one thing, like a sickness, something he'd had to endure for a while but which had now gone away.

The camps had gone away and he knew they would stay away, as long as he buried them in the darkest part of his mind. Didn't care that it probably wasn't healthy to do that.

The night brought the camps back anyway.

He swung the chopper through the sky sharply, narrowly avoiding the enemy he'd almost collided with, too lost on the brink of nightmare to concentrate properly.

He regained his wits, locked in on the target and aimed.

He'd blow them all from the sky.

Get them before they got him.

Before they got Face, or BA or Hannibal.

Again.

No, there was definitely no anger.

That wasn't rage clouding his vision.

Just a red mist blowing up from the banks below as he came to land, following the falling aircraft into the village below.

He took his knife, his rifle and set off trying to find survivors.

Murdock found the old man in one of the blazing huts, his body lifeless, the picture by his outstretched fingers charred and torn, two smiling faces, all the promise of youth staring back at him as the fires consumed it, flames licking at the Vietnamese letters for "Grandfather" scrawled across the back.

And then he cried.

He startled when Hannibal found him some time later, still hunched over the remains of the photograph. Wiped his face roughly, something akin to embarrassment burning hot on his skin. But Hannibal just told him the smoke got to everyone, with a consolatory pat on the shoulder as he steered him out of the nearly demolished hut.

And it was at that moment Murdock knew he'd be one of Colonel Smith's guys until the day he died.

End.


	14. God

"You believe in God?"

Murdock stopped cleaning his gun and stared. This was a little too philosophical for the Faceman. Maybe the tiger beer they were sharing as they cleaned their weapons was getting to him.

Murdock squinted and looked up at the canopy above, scrutinizing the trees in the dimming light of the jungle to buy himself some time.

"Sure," he admitted finally.

There were a few seconds silence as Face seemingly mulled his answer over. The unspoken "still?" hanging thick in the air.

"You know how religious orders are always telling you, you gotta make Heaven on earth?"

"Yeah?"

" You think maybe this is Hell on earth?"

"Hot enough to be," said Murdock lightly, resuming his cleaning with a vengeance.

Face nodded, wiped the sweat from his brow with his arm, even as night approached the jungle still felt far too warm, the sun still burning, almost smothering him in heat.

He turned his back to it.

Vietnam was definitely Hell.

End.


	15. Walking in Memphis

"_Blue moon, you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own..."_

" I told you fool you better knock that off before I leave you standing by the side of the road," growled BA unceremoniously cutting Murdock's serenade short.

" And I keep tellin' you, music is poetry for the soul. Ever since I was a young boy in Mississippi, growing up by the river, listening to the Gospel music in church I could feel it speak to me, resounding with my heart, telling me I should sing, sing and spread the joy!" Murdock informed him dramatically.

" Those doctors need to leave your soul alone and do more tests on your head; make sure you stop with all that dumb jibber jabber, you ain't Elvis or the king of rock 'n roll. King of crazy is what you are! You're not even from Mississippi!"

" Now BA, if Murdock wants to channel Elvis Presley I don't really see a problem with it. After all when in Rome-"

" But we ain't in Rome, we're in Memphis and this fool's already acting crazier than usual. Next he'll be talking to his pockets or his imaginary friends again" snapped BA, overriding Face's attempt to play peacemaker.

" I don't talk to my pockets"

"Don't talk sense neither," countered BA.

Face sighed as the bickering continued, his attempts to play peacemaker thwarted.

It was going to be a long case.

End.


	16. Captain

**I haven't written anything in a while so my skills may be a tad rusty, I'm trying to break myself back into the habit with small oneshots. Apologies if it's OOC! **

* * *

Breathing still ragged from the outburst he'd just displayed, Murdock leant against the hastily shut door, the urgent slam still reverberating around the room, the turn of the lock louder than normal as Richter comforted the visibly shaken nurse, assuring her that it wasn't anything she'd done. Murdock was a complex patient, one that although usually easy-going, had these "moments".

How was she to know, so newly graduated, the way to deal with a man who had been diagnosed with more personalities than a travelling circus?

Breathing slowed to normal pace as Richter continued. Murdock listened to his explanation as intently as he knew the nurse was. Captain, Mr, it didn't matter, the title meant nothing to Murdock if he'd decided to do away with Murdock altogether, like today, as she'd discovered by simply asking Mr Murdock if he would care for breakfast, that he was in fact Lord Byron and any other form of address was an insult worthy of the fit he'd just pitched.

Her panic at being assaulted with rabid and snarling poetry and half a dozen books masquerading as make shift missiles was subsiding as Richter's words soothed. Murdock peeked through the square of mesh-wire, could see Richter's hand laid gently on her shoulder, offering solace of coffee and cake in the Doctors lounge.

Murdock wondered if they baked a cake daily in preparation for a patient's outburst or if they had a ready-made supply. Maybe they hired someone especially.

He turned as they departed through the corridor, a smile tugging at his lips, eyes closed. Maybe he'd been a bit overzealous as Byron earlier, Mr Murdock be damned.

The note from Face still lay heavy in his pocket, a time and date encoded on it. Another mission shaping up outside the VA, waiting for his expertise.

He was still Captain where it counted.

End.


	17. Madness

**I haven't written anything A Team based in well over a year. I fear this is probably not very in character but I wanted to write something. I want to get back into writing. This is set in Season 5. I guess by the end it's AU. It's angsty Murdock. **

* * *

"_Men are so necessarily mad, that not to be mad would amount to another form of madness."_

_-Blaise Pascal_

His vision was blurred through gritty eyes rimmed red, shaded purple with the weight of the last thirty six hours. Stubble scratched at his palm as he ran a weary hand over his face. The faucet came to life with a screech, water spluttering before descending into a pitiful trickle. Murdock banged his fist against it, the dull ache spreading rapidly. A hissing curse snarled beneath his breath at the inadequate plumbing. Duly chastised the stream of water increased, allowing him to cup the coldness in his hands and splash it against his face over zealously.

Water still dripped from his hair, a cold trail down his neck as he glanced in the mirror, searching.

Was it visible? Did it stain him like some perversely frenzied mark? He tightened his grip on the ceramic edge, pain bolting through his fingertips.

He couldn't see it.

Maybe he was immune to the madness now. Perhaps it had clung to him for so long he now no longer noticed it. Or it could be like the scent of a person's home, one they were so used to they didn't even smell it.

Perhaps his insanity was like that.

He leant further across the sink, porcelain digging into his rib cage, breath steaming up the glass as he edged closer, his haggard self reflected in brown eyes.

Maybe he'd fooled them all.

Face, Hannibal, Richter, all the nurses. He'd wrapped them all around his finger, insanity down to an art. A couple of rantings here, a raving or two there. Eating paint. Talking to his shoes. Laughing at the stars as he tilted his head back amongst the explosions, the underbelly of a chopper kissing the sky. Talking to invisible dogs and cockroaches. Placing dinosaurs and Indians in Vietnam. Adopting the voice of everyone from Bugs Bunny to Henry Kissinger.

He'd gotten so good at it all.

Born out of necessity, devised between himself and Hannibal, way back in the sweltering jungles of Vietnam. Hushed conversations beneath the canopy, words low and rushed amidst a hail of gunfire, flickers of fire shadowing their faces as it danced around them.

He was the secret weapon, he was the wild card, tucked safely in the VA. On call whenever they needed it. Bust him out, watch him fly. Howlin' Mad Murdock to the rescue.

Hadn't done much rescuing the last time. A little touch of spook 101 had restrained his hand. Virginia stole them away. _Stockwell_ stole them away.

Then he was _too_ good at it all.

Hoisted by his own petard.

They wouldn't let him out. Not after the testimony he'd given at the trial.

Not after the nightmares.

So he ran.

Ran and hid from the dark. Searched for the light his three friends had always provided him.

Anything to keep himself from entering the darkest abyss of his mind. Anything to staunch the steady pulse of guilt and shame. Anything to stop the way his mind was fragmenting without them.

He blinked.

It was never meant to be real.

It was a plan.

A lie.

A game.

He'd lost control of it somewhere.

The rules rewritten,the lie spiralled, no longer comfortable in his hands.

No longer restrained.

BA had seen it. BA had always seen it.

Glass ice cold against his fingertips as he pressed them against the mirror, trying to touch the person he'd become, to see if the madness radiated from every pore in the reflection like it did in the flesh.

He couldn't find his friends.

He scrambled backwards from the mirror, away from pallid flesh, from soulless eyes and a gaping mouth, from reaching hands and tormented screams. From the unrecognisable man before him.

Too many ghosts resided there, in those soulless orbs, bloodied and broken bodies, fire and body bags. Gavels and judgement,Vietnam and firing squads. Voices echoing in his ears, chopper blades buzzing around his brain, and screaming that seemed to never end. Animalistic and raw. Grieving and torn.

Blood pulsating in his ears, throbbing through his skull, a hammer. Never ending pounding. Hannibal, Face and BA's death sentences. Torched villages in Vietnam. One screw up too many, a failure on his part that would never have happened on Hannibal's watch.

Fault. Fault. Fault.

He'd lied so often it had become the truth.

Then blessed relief as his fist made contact, a roar harsh and guttural wrenched from deep within his throat. The memories shattered with the glass, crunching beneath his sneakers.

He sank to the floor, breathing hoarse and ragged, fingers streaming a heavy crimson. Knuckles pained and body taught and trembling from adrenaline and fear.

It had taken him thirty six hours to get from LA to Virginia, to find an apartment, to seek out a job. For the cracks to deepen until he couldn't paper over them alone.

It had taken him fourteen years to fall apart.

To let the darkness that had been stalking his soul since he first touched a Huey, in that blazing pit of Hell, finally catch up with him.

He rested his head against his aching arm and let it claim him.

Surrendered himself to the madness.


End file.
